


Tell Us About It, Jefferson

by Michelle_A_Emerlind



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgy, Power Play, Surprisingly Romantic for an Orgy, Use Me Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/pseuds/Michelle_A_Emerlind
Summary: Hamilton invites Jefferson to a party. Jefferson just didn't know it was THAT kind of party, but he also has some ideas on how to make it better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the ever awesome [Skarlatha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/pseuds/skarlatha) for betaing! 
> 
> This is just a little orgy fic that got pretty romantic with the feelings there. But who doesn't like some good fucking with a bit of kissing? :D

The end of the day on Friday is not the time Jefferson wants to see Hamilton lounging in his office doorway, smirking, hip cocked out, and looking like the utter dickwad Jefferson knows he is. But still, he’s there, smooth skin and hair that looks too damn soft, big eyes with the strength of coffee Jefferson likes to take and just as easy to burn him.

Jefferson frowns, but keeps typing his email update to Washington. “What?” he snaps, his tone dripping with sarcasm and boredom.

Hamilton keeps on grinning and pushes himself away from the doorframe, his swagger a little more fluid than usual. “What are you doing tonight?’

Jefferson scoffs. “Nothing that involves you. What do you want, Hamilton?”

“ _Madison_ told me,” Hamilton says with a quirk of his lips even higher, “that the two of you used to _date_.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “Only you would find this information of use. It was three dates and it was years ago. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Hamilton slides into Jefferson’s chair opposite his desk and leans forward to put his elbows on the wood surface. Jefferson would be lying if he didn’t say that all of his attention was captured up in the motion, in the smooth slide of Hamilton’s upper body, in the unblinking gaze that makes Jefferson hot under the collar. But Thomas is a prideful man and keeps typing out his sentence, even if he already knows he’ll need to rewrite the email once Hamilton takes his distracting ass outside.

“Hmm,” Hamilton continues. “It is my business.”

Jefferson just grunts out a “HA!” and keeps clacking on his keys.

“Means you like cock.”

Jefferson’s fingers still and he finally glances over at Hamilton, an eyebrow slowly rising. Hamilton grins and does a little lip-licking motion that might be illegal if Jefferson were to admit his interest. Hamilton leans forward even more, sliding onto Jefferson’s desk like sweet, cloying molasses. “And if you like _cock_ ,” he clicks his tongue at the word, “then you’ll want to free your calendar. Say...seven tonight?”

Jefferson lets go of a deep-chested chuckle. “No.” He goes back to his email, determined not to fall into whatever pit of insanity Hamilton seems desperate to drag him into. “Nice try, though.”

Hamilton waits for a minute, but when Jefferson refuses to give him the time of day, he stands and saunters back to the doorway. “Too bad, if you don’t come. We’ll miss you.”

Jefferson pauses again. “We?”

Hamilton laughs. “Come to the party, Thomas.” And with that, he’s gone, the little swish of his hips scandalous. Jefferson frowns and drops his hands completely from his computer, staring at the wood of his desk as if an actual invitation rests there. It shines, swirls in his mind, glitters with possibilities, but Thomas is too smart of a man to fall into what is most obviously a ploy. Isn’t he?

***

Hamilton sends him a calendar invite titled “You Know You Want To” with an address and time, but no indication of who “we” is. Jefferson deletes it immediately upon seeing it, then drags it out of his trash just to decline it and delete it again, before finally--right before the clock strikes five--pulling it up a third time and hitting the “tentative” button with a frown on his face.

Whatever the hell kind of trick this is that Hamilton’s trying to get him into, he shouldn’t fall for it. He should know better than to even be considering a personal invite from a man that might as well be labeled his political nemesis and, even if such a personal invite was extended from literally anyone else, Jefferson should be more discerning than to accept an event for which he has no details of an agenda. But still. He has a weakness he shares with Hamilton. One he is loathe to admit. _Curiosity_. And, well, Hamilton ends up getting him. Hook, line, and sinker.

The address turns out to be for a hotel suite, which shouldn’t surprise Jefferson given the topic of their earlier conversation. It’s one of the nicer hotels, too, relatively close to where they work and Jefferson will begrudgingly admit it’s within good taste. The invite says fourth floor, room 4113 and gives instructions to obtain a key from the front desk. Jefferson follows the plan to a T and the receptionist, when she hands over the keycard, gives him quite the judgemental up-and-down that makes him wonder yet again what he’s gotten himself into.

But the room is easy to find. And the key works. Although once he has swung the door open and stepped inside, he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. He blinks and lets himself be carried into the landscape and flurry of activity.

“FUCK!” Laurens yells and pulls out of Hamilton, hides his cock behind his hands and shrieks, “You invited _Jefferson_?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes and leans up on his elbows on the massage table smack in the middle of the room where he had previously been flat on his back. Behind him, Mulligan doesn’t seem worried at all and instead, kisses down Hamilton’s back. “Yeah?” Hamilton says with a furrow of his brow.

Off to the side on a rather plush couch, Lafayette, hearing the commotion, breaks his mouth away from-- _God_ \--Washington’s and turns to the door. “OH! You invited _Jefferson_. Oh, oui. Yes, yes.” Lafayette crooks his finger at Thomas. “Come here, mon ami, I can warm you up.”

Washington frowns at him and pulls Lafayette’s head back to his own as Jefferson takes in the room. It’s a standard suite, a small half wall separating the living area where they are all at from a bed in the corner that is still perfectly tucked and unused. The couch leans against the right wall, its occupants deaf again to the motions of the others. Directly opposite the couch on the left is a desk, also untouched, and further back into the left corner is an armchair. Everything otherwise would seem perfectly normal and unsullied except for the massage table set as the centerpiece, Mulligan’s motions as his tongue does down further on Hamilton’s back, Laurens’ glare at Jefferson, and Hamilton-- _Hamilton_ who Jefferson is sure he can’t keep his eyes from.

Hamilton’s skin shines in the fluorescent light, his hair a mess half-fallen out of a band, and his eyes dilated and alive, drinking Jefferson in like the first sight of water in the desert. His mouth is parted, beautifully swollen and his cock is standing up higher than when Jefferson entered the room, the loveliest of compliments.

Jefferson’s mind swirls into action, the million dollar question on his lips-- _why invite me here_? But it’s obvious. Jefferson doesn’t need to patronize Hamilton with the answer, doesn’t need to voice the exchange here that is far more dangerous and alive than any verbal sparring they have ever done. _To fuck him_. How long has Hamilton known he has wanted it?

But not quite like this. Jefferson won’t give him the satisfaction and he can already tell in the taut muscles of Hamilton’s frame, in his damn near slutty come-on from earlier, that inviting Jefferson is not inviting another cock to the mix that Hamilton desires to satisfy himself upon. No, it’s a challenge, as crisp and clear as day and Jefferson, well...he’ll play along.

“You all come here to fuck each other?” he states, waving his hand dismissively around the room and giving Washington, in particular, a _I thought you were better than this_ stare.

Hamilton laughs and sits up further, which lets Mulligan’s tongue work its way down his spine. “No, they come here to fuck _me_ ,” he clarifies, predictably.

Jefferson’s eyebrow still goes up, though. All part of the game that he is already calculating to win. “They _all_ come here to fuck you.”

“Oui,” Lafayette says around Washington’s tongue.

“We work each other up nicely, though,” Mulligan adds and sucks so dirtily on an area of skin that Jefferson hears the spit.

“And _you_ ,” Jefferson clarifies for the sake of the turn, “want me to fuck you, too?”

“If you’re any good at it,” Hamilton says with a challenging eyebrow raise.

Jefferson smirks and Laurens finally moves forward. “Fuck this,” he grumbles. “I’m getting blue balls. If he wants to stand there all day, he can.” Laurens thrusts back inside without any mercy and Jefferson watches, intrigued, as Hamilton’s eyes cross and his mouth parts.

“In or out,” Hamilton still manages to gasp at Jefferson, “or are you going to say _tentative_ again?”

Jefferson snorts and walks further inside, feeling ridiculously calm at the fact that he is the only man in the room still clothed. Mulligan moves up and Hamilton falls back on the table, Laurens leans over him with a brutal rhythm. Hamilton gasps, but he also starts muttering things like “down, no, too far down, no, a centimeter up.”

He’s not surprised at all in regards to Hamilton’s loud-mouthed backseat fucking, but what he will say is mildly concerning is that a man like Laurens who very clearly has done this before to, in fact, this particular man, seems to be getting the angle all wrong. Of course, Jefferson assures himself, Laurens seems to be quite the capable partner in the moment. It just happens to be that he is dealing with a perfectionist lover who has a mind to state his own case.

Jefferson is broken out of his thoughts as, to his chagrin, Mulligan moves forward toward him like Jefferson is actually _participating_ in this ludicrous show. Jefferson holds up his hand and merely steps around them to the side, finds the armchair in the corner with a beautiful view of Hamilton’s face, and sinks down into it.

“What are you doing, mon tigre?” Lafayette asks with a little moan when Washington’s mouth finds the sensitive skin below his ear.

“Watching,” Jefferson says and crosses his legs like this doesn’t affect him at all. “You do this often?”

“Every Friday,” Laurens grunts and then gives a toothy grin down to Hamilton, “we come in the bitch.”

“Yeah!” Hamilton calls with a laugh, one hand above his head and gripping the table. He keeps addressing Laurens, but snaps his gaze over to Jefferson, chin held high and showing off. “Call me a bitch. Keep talking. What else, John?”

“For tonight, I think I’ll watch,” Jefferson says, interrupting whatever verbal game Hamilton is trying to get Laurens to play with him. He lounges back with an infuriating coolness that Hamilton glares at him for.

“Ah, he’ll fuck him by the end of the night,” Mulligan notes and angles Hamilton’s head and neck down so he can slide his dick past his lips.

Hamilton gives a soft little grunt, but takes it and Jefferson watches, impressed but unwilling to say so, as Hamilton takes the dick damn near all the way in. And if Hamilton swallows when he makes eye contact with Jefferson, if Jefferson’s skin breaks out in goosebumps when he sees Hamilton’s Adam’s apple bob, well, neither of them admit to the fact.

“How far are you, mon loup?” Lafayette asks and Laurens just gives a gaspy little whimper.

Lafayette rises from his place with Washington and slides over to the center of the room, takes the back of Laurens’ head, tilts it, and then goes at him, dirty kissing his way inside. “Come in him,” Lafayette mutters in between wet, open kisses. “I’m impatient…”

Laurens slows down into hard, rough thrusts that fuck Hamilton up onto Mulligan’s cock. Jefferson notes, amused, that Hamilton is still trying to _talk_ around the shaft of flesh, even though nothing he says is in any way coherent. He also notes, although the information could just be a coincidence of timing, that while Hamilton is hard, Jefferson wouldn’t call him _fully_ there and his hips keep twitching in a way that suggests less desperate desire for friction and more desperate desire for re-angling. Jefferson files the information away in his quickly growing repertoire of Hamilton.

But Laurens, clearly, is having none of the same problems Hamilton is having as his body slams forward with a gasp equally due to Hamilton’s ass, Lafayette’s tongue, and Lafayette’s fingers that are pinching a nipple in a way that must be sure to get Laurens off. There’s a low, sinful groan and then Laurens’ body stills. Jefferson lifts his hand to his chin and rubs at his jaw in thought, watching as Hamilton meets Laurens’ last thrust and then falls on the table with muscles that never release from their taut, rigid status.

Hamilton spares a flicker of eyes Jefferson’s way before Laurens pulls out, Jefferson biting his lip as he watches the cock fall free, sees it dripping. Mulligan removes his own dick from Hamilton’s mouth, even though he hasn’t finished yet. “Want to lick it clean?” he asks Hamilton with a nod at Laurens.

“When the fuck do I _not_ want to lick it clean? I swear to God, Laurens, do you not understand the definition of a centimeter? I mean--”

“Shut him up, Lafayette,” Laurens says with a groan, sliding to the head of the table while Lafayette takes no time pushing his own dick into Hamilton’s ass.

“You better go fast this time,” Hamilton grumbles before he throws his head back and opens his mouth to Laurens’ dick, licking a stripe up the underside and catching the remains of his release with a filthy, flirty wink in Jefferson’s direction.

Lafayette chuckles. “Oh, lion, you always know I go slow,” he tells Hamilton and, true to his word, rocks into Hamilton with a leisurely-building pace.

Washington rises then and walks over to the table, slides his hands along Lafayette’s back so that his spine arches like a cat as his hips snap forward in juxtaposition. Washington leans in and kisses the back of Lafayette’s neck and then saunters his way to the front just as Laurens pulls back, his dick flaccid and shining with Hamilton’s spit. Laurens collapses on the couch and watches the rest of them at work.

Washington runs his fingers over Hamilton’s chest and gives a little grunt, his dick hard and in Hamilton’s face. Lafayette moves his own hands over Hamilton’s sides to his hips and asks him, “Are you going to suck his dick, mon lion? The president’s cock? Going to take it?”

“Faster,” Hamilton groans before he does, his mouth sliding onto Washington. Washington grunts and begins to thrust forward into his throat and Mulligan, in between Washington and Lafayette, leans down to put his hand on Hamilton, stroke him to interest again. Jefferson watches them all, the attention they give Hamilton in their hands and skin and bodies, but also the complaint pouring off of Hamilton’s own skin like he always complains about everything--unable to shut up even in silence. It’s rather a bit of a mess, Jefferson thinks, even if he will admit his own cock has started to take notice of the bend in Hamilton’s spine, the working of his throat, the rock of his hips, and his cock curved beautifully up as Mulligan’s hand moves on it and squeezes…

Lafayette takes Mulligan’s chin in his hand and tilts him, begins to kiss him and Washington carefully puts his fingers on either side of Hamilton’s throat, gently tilts him to work.

“Say something sweet to me,” Lafayette moans, “Someone, _anyone_.”

“You eyes are more beautiful than the Seine,” Washington returns from his place up higher and Lafayette gasps out and rolls his body slowly, coming with such sensuality that Jefferson would be sure the motions were fake if he didn’t see the extra come around Hamilton’s ass.

“NICE,” Laurens says from the couch, tilting his head to get a good look. “He’s so goddamn _pretty_ when he’s such a slut for come.”

Hamilton gives an extra little moan at that, the vibrations causing Washington to bend forward in pleasure. Hamilton rolls his body, his back arching in a bow between the two men and he slides his hand onto his cock beside Mulligan’s at the same time as he gives a Jefferson a bat of eyelashes. Jefferson lets him win this time, returns the tiniest of smiles and the smallest of sparkles in his eyes.

“More to go,” Mulligan says and taps Lafayette’s hip. “Out of the way.”

“I’m basking,” Lafayette complains, his eyes on the ceiling.

Mulligan gives him a dirty look and shoves him aside. He slips out with an eyeroll and collapses back on the carpet, smiling ridiculously. Hamilton slides his eyes Jefferson’s way to see if he’s still paying attention and if there’s a slight twitch to his cock, well, Jefferson won’t let him win twice in a row. He plays himself cool, keeps lounging, keeps ignoring the press of his cock to the seam of his jeans.

“Ready for fast?” Mulligan asks with a bright grin, gripping Hamilton’s hips and not waiting for him to pull off Washington and respond as he thrusts inside. Hamilton moans loudly around the cock and lifts one leg to try and push Mulligan in deeper, but Mulligan’s rhythm is rather shallow, if indeed fast, his cock never fully smacking against Hamilton’s ass. Still, Mulligan’s enjoying it, rolling his eyes back into his head and groaning as Laurens drags himself off the couch and back into action, kissing Mulligan’s chest and letting his hands roam.

“Not gonna take long,” Mulligan grunts. “I get off on watching...eh, Jefferson?”

Jefferson smirks, but doesn’t respond and Hamilton pulls off of Washington with a pop and a demand, “Someone touch my cock.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Laurens mutters, but replaces Hamilton’s hand with his own, starts stroking.

“Almost there,” Mulligan tells him. “Then the president can finish your ass and you can come--”

“Not with how you’re doing it,” Hamilton groans and tries to wiggle down despite Mulligan’s grip on his hips.

“Such a fucking tease,” Lafayette says from the floor. “You always bitch and you bitch and you bitch, but you come every time from us and you know it.”

“Not this goddamn century,” Hamilton groans, and give a quick, but desperate, look Jefferson’s way, “with you--”

Laurens leans forward and puts his hand on Hamilton’s throat, pushes his head back and Washington, as if this is an action they frequently perform, simultaneously sticks his dick back inside.

“Shit, I’m gonna come,” Mulligan whimpers and Laurens turns to him, kisses his jawline and bites down as Mulligan keeps going, “Gonna...gonna...fuck...yes...going….” And then he is, his body leaving no room for misinterpretation as he finishes fully in on the last stroke, which gives Hamilton an extra twitch of hardness.

Hamilton pulls off with a rather wet suck and leans up, uses his leg to push Mulligan away and then demands, in true Alexander fashion, “Washington, get your dick in me and finish me.”

Washington gives a little eye roll, but Lafayette crawls up from the floor to stand by Hamilton. “You know I’ll help, mon ami,” he says and Laurens grunts that he will, too, and Mulligan, with barely functioning legs, mutters his agreement.

Jefferson watches in awe as the four of them descend and something in his mind ticks, spreads light on the situation. That it takes four men, all with equal passion--Laurens as he starts to kiss Hamilton, Washington as he moves inside with deep and fast, if a little too controlled, thrusts, Mulligan with lips on Hamilton’s nipples, and Lafayette backwards straddling Hamilton’s stomach as he strokes him and cups his balls--to finish him. That for all of this, for all the men surrounding him, Hamilton _still_ isn’t satisfied.

Jefferson watches as it continues on, stares as Washington gets closer and closer, even despite how Hamilton has started to bitch that it’s not _wild_ enough. He lets it go on until it’s almost there, until Lafayette and Washington are back to kissing, until Laurens and Mulligan’s hands find each other’s bodies even with mouths on Hamilton, before Jefferson makes his first move. As he sees Washington tense, as he drinks in the arch of Hamilton’s body as it _yearns_ for something to push it over, he whistles, sharp and harsh into the hotel room.

Hamilton breaks from Laurens’ mouth and snaps his eyes over and Jefferson doesn’t care how many of the others are watching, just that Hamilton’s gaze is upon him, hot and darkly molten lust reflected in the expanded pupils. Jefferson lifts his fingers to make a _watching you_ motion from his eyes to Hamilton’s and mouths, “Right here, Alexander,” with only a little puff of breath and he smiles with pride as he watches Hamilton twitch upward and finish just a bare second before Washington.

The room spirals down slowly, each of them coming softly to a stop. Lafayette lifts his fingers and starts sucking on them where Hamilton finished and Washington pulls out slowly, his own hand preoccupied with the beautiful mess of Hamilton’s ass. Laurens and Mulligan lift their heads and share a soft chuckle, a soft kiss, and it’s Washington who speaks first, turns to Jefferson with a bashful little smile.

“Pretty down here. Sure you don’t want to join? Sometimes he likes to be used after.”

But Jefferson just gives a small shake of his head and keeps his expression neutral. He stands and doesn’t care at all that the five of them can see his dick stretching his pants out. “Watching was all I wanted,” he says with a cool little flourish and walks out of the room with as much dignity as he can manage, thoughts and plans swirling around in his mind.

***

Jefferson waits for Hamilton to make a move, partly because he’s curious to know if he will offer a second invite and partly because he knows that drawing Hamilton to him when Hamilton eventually gets impatient will be far more impactful than following after him like the puppy Hamilton wants him to be. And, sure enough, Hamilton caves Monday afternoon near the end of work.

He leans in Jefferson’s door the same as before, sexy hip cock, smirk, and all. Jefferson, back to emailing, pauses this time and gives the smallest tick of a smile. “Alexander,” he greets, letting the familiarity of the name roll off his tongue with honey-dipped slowness.

“Jefferson.” Hamilton runs his hand up the doorframe until it’s above his head, uses it to stretch and bend his body on display. “You never told me if I was good on Friday.”

Jefferson chuckles. “Of course you would be into praise.”

Rather than fight it, Hamilton just grins and ducks his eyelids partly down. “Am I?”

“Be a good boy,” Jefferson tells him, “and shut the door.”

Hamilton slinks inside and kicks the doorstop out on his way past, letting the door swing shut. He makes his way to Jefferson’s desk and doesn’t sit this time, just bends over, elbows on the wood, his body slid forward and his ass in the air. “Well...did you like it?”

Jefferson drinks him in and lets all his feverish desire for Hamilton cloud up his eyes and stroke a fire up between them. He watches in pride as Hamilton’s pupils flare, as his lips create just the tiniest bit of space between them. “The question,” Jefferson says and lifts his hand to touch his fingertips lightly to Hamilton’s chin. He watches the shiver ghost over him, is hyper aware that this is the first time in all of this that Jefferson has touched him, “is did _you_ enjoy it?”

Hamilton scoffs out a little breath. “I set the invites. You think I would let four men come back at me if it wasn’t good?”

“Eh,” Jefferson says with a shrug. “Looked fine to me. Medium fine. Not _fine fine_. Good.” He grins. “Not at all great.”

“So what are you saying?” Hamilton asks and dips his eyes drunkenly to Jefferson’s lips. “That I’m bored and I want a challenge?”

Jefferson chuckles and cups his chin. “Oh, darling, don’t you?”

“And you think _you_ can give it to me?” Hamilton’s eyes go wide and filthy.

Jefferson smirks and pulls his thumb up to press it to Hamilton’s lips. “Isn’t that why you asked me to join you, Alexander? And it so happens to be that I know the problem with your little soiree.”

“There’s a problem?” Hamilton asks, his tongue deliberately sticking to each word and touching the pad of Jefferson’s thumb.

Jefferson tilts his head and gives him a little nose-wrinkle. “I can make you come better than that.”

Hamilton laughs and it’s an odd little thing. A flirtatious giggle wrapped in a deprecating chuckle of superiority. “And how’s that?”

“Those other men?” Jefferson removes his hand and scoots forward in his desk chair until Hamilton has to practically go cross-eyed to continue to eyefuck him like he is. “They can’t dominate you.”

“They dominate me every night,” Alex answers, voice a whisper and eyes dark moons spinning into Jefferson’s orbit just like he was hoping they would.

“No,” Jefferson says with a confident grin, “they don’t. They dominate your body. Never…” He pauses and lifts his fingers, touches an errant strand of Hamilton’s hair and tucks it behind his ear teasingly delicate. “Never your mind. And most men, well...what’s the difference? But _you_ , oh, Alexander Hamilton can never be had without someone that challenges his _mind_.”

Hamilton leans back away and stands up, hands still flat on the desk. “I’m skeptical, but intrigued.” He shrugs as if the action is a large defeat. “I’ll give you a night to prove yourself. Do you want me on your own? Do you think you could _handle_ it?”

Jefferson shakes his head and lounges back in his office chair. “No, invite the boys. In fact, I’ll send the invite. I know what you need.”

“And what is that?”

Jefferson laughs. “You think it’s that easy? No. You give me a night? I run it all. Every ounce of it. I’ll even set the venue, the seating…” His eyes scan over Hamilton. “The menu. And you, my lovely, do not get to know a goddamn thing.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrow. “And what if I don’t _like_ what you have in mind?”

“Of course you won’t like it. You don’t like surprises, for one. Or to be left out of control. But you’ll _enjoy_ it. Of that I can guarantee you. Still, it’s only gentlemanly of me...come back Thursday. Meet me with a list of demands. Things you absolutely will not do. I’ll take the list into advisement, we’ll make some...negotiations, as it were. And then I’ll fucking blow your mind, Alexander.” Thomas gives him a salacious grin. “Just you wait.”

***

When Jefferson walks into his office first thing on Thursday morning, Hamilton is already sitting in a chair, notes spread out all over Jefferson’s desk. Jefferson sighs and nurses his coffee. “What’s this?”

“My nopes list,” Hamilton says and picks up one piece of paper to wave at him. “You can’t possibly remember, so I wrote it all down.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes and turns to shut the door. He doesn’t even get it fully closed before Hamilton begins. “No watersports, no sounding, no candle wax, no holding me up by my nipples, no swings, no strawberry flavored lube, no clamps on my toes, no--”

“ _Alexander_ ,” Jefferson says with a huff and drops into his office chair, setting his coffee to the side. “Do you really think I’m going to be pissing on your face?”

Hamilton gives him a challenging eyebrow raise. “Don’t know. You look like a kinky shit.”

Jefferson scoffs. “Remember, I just said I would take it into _advisement_. But sure. List off every little kink you’ve ever found on the internet. This should be fun.”

Hamilton frowns and for the first time, Jefferson takes in the rings around his eyes, the unkempt strands of his hair that fall into his face, the grip he has on the piece of paper he’s holding. “This is serious,” Hamilton spits out and Jefferson backpedals, snaps the smirk off his face and simply nods.

“Alright. Sorry.” He pauses. “When did you get here, Alex?”

Hamilton shrugs and frowns. “Four. Didn’t know when you get here in the mornings.”

Jefferson arches an eyebrow. Four in the morning. Perhaps he’s underestimated Hamilton’s vulnerability in giving over control. He gives a curt nod. “Continue.”

“I have them for a reason,” Hamilton tells him, the paper forgotten. “The first ones, okay, maybe I was fishing a bit to make sure it was inclusive, but...the big ones...I have for a reason.”

“Okay. So tell me the list and tell me the reason. I’ll abide by the spirit of it. My goal isn’t to make you uncomfortable, Hamilton. It’s not to humiliate you.”

“Wouldn’t it be, though?” Hamilton asks with a frown. “Get your enemy right where you want him?”

Jefferson tilts his head and turns his cool gaze warm. “What a boring way to win.” Hamilton gives a little scoff and looks down with wide, emotional eyes, so Jefferson softens his tone as he leans forward across the desk. “Hey.” Hamilton doesn’t look up. “Alexander.” Still nothing. Jefferson gives a small whistle, the same as the previous night, and Hamilton snaps his eyes up. Jefferson holds his gaze, wills Hamilton to see his sincerity. “I can promise you that my goals in this are of good will. What do I want? To make you come so hard and so fast that you forget everything but my name. Do I want to control you? Absolutely. But not in the way you think I do. I’m not going to take anything from you. I won’t force you. You fall into me willingly or not at all. Deal?”

“...deal,” Hamilton says with the smallest of whines. He stares at the papers below him.

“Tell me,” Jefferson encourages.

Hamilton clears his throat. “No sensory deprivation. No gags, no blindfolds, no plugging my ears for whatever reason. No tying down. Not with handcuffs or rope or silk or anything. My hands are free at all times and I can see, I can talk, and I can hear.”

“Why?” Jefferson asks softly.

Hamilton frowns. “So I can get away. A hurricane, a lonely childhood, and a war. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”

Jefferson pauses and watches Hamilton as he takes a deliberate breath. “Alright. Anything else?”

“No pain. Not even, like, pulling my hair. Gets me down faster than anything. And no marks, not even hickeys or anything like that.”

Jefferson nods. “Others?”

“Positions. I’ll ride occasionally, but it’s not my preference.  No reverse cowboy, no facesitting, no doggy…”

Jefferson smiles. “So you want it missionary.”

“I’m not a toy,” Hamilton says with a frown. “I mean, I like to be used some, like to be the center of attention, but not the dildo that you don’t even have to look at. I’m letting five men fuck me. The least they can do is pay attention to me.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

Hamilton slowly shakes his head. Jefferson pauses for a moment to let him collect himself before he speaks again. “I need you to trust me,” he tells Hamilton. If nothing new ever happens, you won’t be satisfied like you so desperately want to be. I won’t push your boundaries, but you have to agree to step out of your comfort zone, too. This night is still all about you. It’s still about what you want. I’m just going to lead you there, but you have to be willing to _step_ there.”

Hamilton frowns, but nods slowly. “But you stop if I say no?”

“Of course.” Jefferson picks up his coffee and gives it an idle sip, even though it’s cooled considerably. “Do you want a safeword?”

“Am I going to _need_ one?”

“No, but do you want one anyway?”

Hamilton sighs, but gives a curt nod. “How about--”

Jefferson snorts and cuts him off. “Oh, hell no. You don’t get to pick your own. If you get to say something simple like ‘kiwi,’ you’ll just kiwi all over the place when someone doesn’t hit your prostate right. No, _I_ get to pick it.”

Hamilton wrinkles his nose. “ _What_.”

Jefferson grins. “I’m thinking...a phrase. You’re a smart enough cookie to remember a phrase. And I’m sure you’ll never say this unless you really mean it.” He grins wickedly. “National credit sucks.”

Hamilton makes a gagging motion. “ _Seriously_?”

“Well, you’ll never scream that out in bed unless you really mean to.”

Hamilton grumbles, but stands. “Fine. I _guess_ that will do for now.” He fidgets a tiny bit and purposefully leaves his papers on Jefferson’s desk. He starts to walk toward the exit, but when his hand is on the door handle, Jefferson whistles him to attention.

“Relax, Alexander,” he says with a soft smile. “Tomorrow? Well...you’ll never be the same again.”

Hamilton gives him a little eyeroll characteristic of his cocky attitude and opens the door, pasting a flirty smile back at Jefferson on his lips as he leaves.

***

Jefferson arrives at the hotel at six-thirty and checks in with the receptionist who tells him that the room has been arranged the same as it always is, including the massage table that Jefferson will agree to use if for nothing but to give Hamilton a sense of familiarity. He takes the key offered to him and ascends to the correct floor, inserts the card and steps into the dark room. The temperature is stifling hot, so he turns the air-conditioner down and hits all the lights to examine the room from every angle.

The furniture is placed adequately, although he clears off several pieces and arranges them just in case they will be of use. He focuses mainly, though, on three particular items--the massage table, the couch, and the recliner in the corner. These three, after all, will be the center of attention tonight and they should each be cleared and angled to the best ability.

After securing the furniture, he pulls the small bottle of lube he brought out of his pants’ pocket and places it to the side within reach when they need it. And everything else, well...Jefferson is a simple man. He doesn’t need complicated toys to give Hamilton the fuck of his life.

Lafayette and Washington arrive first, together, and Washington seems only mildly bashful to find Jefferson there a second week in a row. Lafayette, on the other hand, is gleeful, and before Thomas can stop him, has placed a rather intimate kiss on his cheek and given him the most flirtatious of winks. “You and I can spend a little time together tonight, too, I hope?” Lafayette asks him, but Jefferson merely smiles in a purposefully coy manner and paces the room.

Mulligan and Laurens are next, stating that Hamilton will be up shortly and it’s Mulligan that asks the question on everyone’s mind. “Going to participate this time?” he asks Jefferson.

Jefferson gives a cool shrug and sticks his hands in his pockets. “I’m going to be in charge, actually.”

The other four exchange looks until Washington cuts in. “Give the man a break. He has a right to try.” Jefferson raises an eyebrow in question and Washington continues. “We’ve each attempted to control Hamilton. No matter what you do, he remains untamed.”

Jefferson gives a slow sweep of the room with his gaze. “Good thing I’m not trying to control him, then.”

Laurens grunts. “Then what the fuck _are_ you doing?”

“He needs a handler,” Jefferson says, polishing his expression into neutrality and basking in the inner sense of pride he gets when each of the men in front of him shift uncomfortably in the face of his mysterious aura. “A guide. You can’t stop a river, but you can change its course.”

Mulligan snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Jefferson is gathering thought to respond when the door opens and the last of the group walks in. Hamilton shuts the door and gives it a courtesy lock before striding inside, right into the middle of the crowd. Jefferson notes his body language--tense, his muscles bunched to spring, the lines of his face held in anticipation, the cross of his arms over his chest in defense. The room is silent except for the slow shifting of feet as Hamilton’s gaze bores into Jefferson’s. He takes in the dark eyes, the crinkle of them, the narrow that belies how large they can be, how dominating. Everyone is waiting for Jefferson to make a move. And he knows it.

“There are rules tonight,” he says simply, hands still in his pockets, shoulders relaxed and loosely towering.

Laurens and Lafayette both groan, Laurens beating the Frenchman to the punch as he says, “I _hate_ rules.”

“Then it’s good that you only have one,” Jefferson responds, never letting his gaze leave Hamilton, each of them trying to snag the other like two sets of thorn branches that grow curled upon one another. “For the four of you, all you need to know is to do what I say when I say it and nothing more where Hamilton is concerned. What you do between the four of you, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about.” Hamilton’s eyes narrow further. “And his safeword is ‘national credit sucks.’ I trust you all to abide by it.”

“What _rules_ ,” Hamilton asks like a spitting bobcat, “do I abide by?”

“Patience,” Jefferson tells him and finally removes his hands from his pockets, reaches up to slide his own suit jacket from his shoulders, place it carefully over the desk chair to the left. He turns and meets Hamilton’s gaze again, locks on like target practice, and begins to slide the knot of his tie down. When it is taken off, he undoes the first two buttons of his shirt to give himself space to breathe, but leaves everything else intact, from his shoes all the way to the vest over his button-up.

With a quirk of his mouth, he moves forward, lifts his hand to Hamilton and watches as Hamilton glares at it warily even as it arcs through the air with the utmost leisure. It lands on his neck, the thumb pressing into the pulse point. Jefferson can feel him beating like the tiniest of birds in his hands, but he wouldn’t know it from the stone expression getting harder by the moment.

Jefferson leans forward until his lips are but a breath away and murmurs so the others don’t hear. “Everything we do, I tell you first. No surprises. But it won’t work if you don’t trust me.” He watches Hamilton swallow, watches him shiver as Jefferson’s second hand comes up to curl around his shoulder.

“ _Fine_ ,” Hamilton concedes. “But you better not fuck this up.”

Jefferson smiles, slow and steady. “First rule: look at nothing but me. Even when they’re in you. The only thing that you get to watch tonight is my face, my eyes...my mouth.” Hamilton’s gaze flickers down to Jefferson’s lips and he smiles. “And the second rule: no talking.” Hamilton opens his mouth to begin, but Jefferson cuts him off with a sharp whistle that shocks him into silence. “If you need anything, you say one word. Just one.” He smiles and runs his thumb over Hamilton’s jawline, watches the arc of it as he brushes skin and stubble. “You say _Thomas_ and I’ll know what you need.”

“How will--”

“ _Trust me_ ,” Jefferson whispers to him. “All you have to do…,” another smile, “is trust me.” He catches Hamilton’s eyes, pours himself into them until Hamilton finally caves with the smallest of whimpers and the briefest parting of his lips. But Jefferson doesn’t let it go to waste. He leans forward and captures him, sucks Hamilton’s bottom lip into his mouth and listens with rapt attention to the catch of breath in his chest, to the hitch of his body forward as they fall into kissing--dirty and thorough and wet.

Jefferson takes him, tilts Hamilton’s head with the softest cradle of his hand and dives his tongue inside, fucks Hamilton’s mouth open until it falls apart for him. And the kiss does what he wanted it to--Hamilton melts like putty in his hands. The tension in his shoulders drops, the hard lines of his body soften, and he bends toward Jefferson like trees growing toward the sun.

Jefferson lets him kiss, lets him have it all until he’s melting for it and when they finally break apart, when Jefferson’s mouth finally leaves Hamilton’s own, he asks, compassionate but firm, “Ready?” And Hamilton, all hot eyes and shivering flesh, nods his consent.

Jefferson takes a step back and surveys the other four, leaning against the wall or simply standing and waiting to see how the night progresses. He waves at them vaguely. “Laurens, undress him, but I get to take his hair down. Lafayette, keep him occupied during.”

The other two move forward and Jefferson turns to let them complete the task. He takes off his cufflinks and sets them on the desk, then rolls up his sleeves to the elbows. When he swings back, Laurens has Hamilton’s shirt off, is working on his pants, and Lafayette is tongue deep in Hamilton’s mouth. Jefferson lets them continue for a time, watches as articles of clothing come off, as Mulligan slowly moves in the background to Washington, begins with simple touches and grunts.

Lafayette trails to a stop as Hamilton’s boxers come off and leave him naked. With a wide grin, the Frenchman turns to Jefferson. “Not as good as you, I think. Perhaps I am not as talented or perhaps he just likes you better.” He gives a slow wink. “Perhaps I will find out before the night is over how you really kiss.”

Jefferson smiles back at him and arches an eyebrow. “Flattered, but tonight, I’m all Alex’s.”

“Pity,” Lafayette says and threads his fingers in Hamilton’s. He tugs and Hamilton moves forward. Lafayette turns them and leads Hamilton to Jefferson and Jefferson takes him as easy as if they have been doing this their whole lives. He smiles slowly, lets himself be warm to Hamilton only, and angles him, pushes him down until he’s sitting on the massage table.

“On your back,” Jefferson directs.

“What are you--” Hamilton tries, but Jefferson cuts him off with a click of his tongue.

“ _Thomas_.”

“What--”

“I won’t tell you anything until you say Thomas.”

“Jefferson, you--”

“Thomas.”

“Jefferson.”

“ _Thomas_.”

Hamilton huffs into silence and then finally gives a curt nod. “Thomas.”

Jefferson smiles and leans forward, puts his mouth right next to Hamilton’s ear. “What a good boy you are for me.” He pulls back and is pleased at the increase in Hamilton’s breath. “On your back. You said you wanted it missionary.”

Hamilton gives him a little glower, but settles down on his back. Jefferson reaches and grabs the desk chair, scoots it over and sits in it at the head of the massage table. He leans over Hamilton and gives him a soft expression before reaching for his ponytail, undoing it. Hamilton’s hair spills across his fingers and Jefferson bites his own lip. He runs his hands through it and gathers it, gently pulls it from under Hamilton’s head until it all drips over the edge of the table. Hamilton watches him, wariness simmering down into curiosity at the delicateness of Jefferson’s touch, at the poise and control of his fingers.

Jefferson slides his hands onto the sides of Hamilton’s head, his fingertips just touching his neck under his chin. He tilts Hamilton until his neck is comfortable, but his view is completely obscured by Jefferson’s face over him and the cover his hair provides. “Watch me,” he says and Hamilton does with deep, intelligent eyes that flicker to Jefferson’s expression, seeing him, critiquing him, drinking him in. “Nothing else.’

Hamilton’s eyes go instinctively down, pouring past his own chest to where the others are at his feet, but Jefferson corrects him with the briefest of tilts again. “They’ll fuck you same as before. But I know what you want, Alexander. What you _need_. Say my name,” Thomas leans down to press his lips to Hamilton’s forehead, to finish muttering against it, “and this will be the fuck of your life.”

“They don’t--”

“Sssshhh.”

“But what if they--”

“Hush.” Jefferson lifts his fingers and motions Mulligan forward. “Get him ready.”

“But usually it’s--”

Jefferson whistles him into stillness. “Usually it is. But now it’s not. Now it’s Mulligan.”

Hamilton frowns and Jefferson watches the conflict in his eyes, rising and dying like the brightest of stars giving way to the calmness of dawn. “You only get one shot,” Hamilton tells him quickly. “One night.”

“I know,” Jefferson tells him quietly. “I won’t throw it away.”

Mulligan moves forward and grabs the bottle sitting at the ready, slides between Hamilton’s legs and moves them open. Hamilton tries to look down, but Jefferson’s fingers under his chin force his eyes back up and Jefferson notes the pinch at the corner of his mouth, the frustration in his expression. He opens his mouth to speak, but Jefferson, ahead of him, presses his fingertips into skin ever so slightly and the words catch in Hamilton’s throat. He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving as he does, and the sounds congeal and mix, the word slipping through his lips like heavy oil. “Thomas.”

“They’re looking at you,” Jefferson assures him, flickering his gaze up to where Mulligan is indeed studying Hamilton as he coats a finger, where Lafayette and Washington with hands on each other’s clothing as they remove it are still keeping one eye on the table, where Laurens in the corner has his hand down his pants and has locked his gaze on Hamilton’s hips.

Hamilton’s eyes widen and his mouth goes from hot agitation to smooth relief. Jefferson gives him a little smile in return, something just for them, a pinpoint of trust to ground him as Mulligan pulls his hip up and slides a finger inside. Jefferson presses fingertips to skin again with just enough pressure to remind and this time Hamilton doesn’t even try to dart his eyes to the others, instead parts his lips and gives the tiniest of gasps as Mulligan’s finger slides inside, eyes flytrap paper on Jefferson.

Jefferson doesn’t let go of his gaze, holds it unblinking. Hamilton’s large, desperately brown eyes mold to Jefferson’s and Jefferson mirrors his movements, parts his lips and breathes with him. Mulligan works Hamilton open, but the action is paltry to what is happening at the head of the table--Jefferson and Hamilton find their rhythm. Merge into one.

Once Mulligan is done, he steps forward as if to start, but Jefferson quickly looks up, is aware of Hamilton’s eyes on the length of his own throat. “Lafayette starts,” he tells the group and the Frenchmen removes himself from Washington’s mouth before raising an eyebrow.

Hamilton cuts in. “Laurens usually--” Jefferson’s fingertips correct. “...Thomas.”

Jefferson returns to looking at Hamilton. “Lafayette goes slow--”

“--too slow--”

“--and slow is good to start.”

Hamilton frowns, but doesn’t protest otherwise and Jefferson nods at the others. Mulligan gives a shrug and returns to Laurens, slips his hand inside and replaces Laurens’ hand with his own. John gasps at that, lets his head thump against the wall and Washington, for his part, sits on the couch with an open, voyeuristic expression.

Lafayette moves forward, stands between Hamilton’s legs, but reaches up to run smooth hands along his side. Hamilton’s chest rises and falls quickly and little goosebumps play out on his skin. Despite the attention, though, he keeps locked on Jefferson and Jefferson smiles at him, slides his right hand down over throat, shoulder and arm until he grasps Hamilton’s hand in his. “Good boy,” he whispers and with his other hand cards his fingers through hair. “Such a good one for me. For him. We are all watching you.”

He rises again in a sharp breath and Jefferson takes a second to glance down to Hamilton’s groin, to see him half-hard and working his way there. “Close your eyes,” he commands and Hamilton’s eyelashes flutter shut, his lips wet as his tongue darts out between them. Jefferson bends to put his mouth next to Hamilton’s ear, eyes on Lafayette, and he narrates. “He’s looking at your hips. I think he likes your hips. What else? He’s going to touch you. Do you like him touching your cock? You seem to. He’s hard for you. Staring at you and hard. You know what he looks like. You remember his dick? Remember the curve to it? His hands are on your hips, do you feel them? Are they hot? Do they set you on fire?” Jefferson moves to let his tongue flick out and touch Hamilton’s earlobe. “Does my voice set you on fire? He’s going to push in. He’s going to fuck you. When you feel him, when he enters you, what are you going to say? What’s the word on your lips, Alex?”

“ _Thomas_.”

Jefferson chuckles. “What a _good_ boy you are. You want to be one, don’t you? You want to be good for me. That’s all you ever want.” Jefferson lifts his left hand to run it smooth over Hamilton’s throat, his right still grasped in his hand. He watches the swallow, is fascinated with the way Hamilton’s skin feels under his touch like every cell is aching, every inch _desperate and desperate and desperate_ for something none of these men can give him. But Jefferson can. The control swirls in the room and Hamilton has grasp of it, has been its puppet master for so long but there is so much resentment there, so much unwillingness to give the strings up. Jefferson knows his body has come, knows he can release himself upon flesh and finger, but could his mind ever let go in that moment? When he finishes does he ever have a moment of release? Does the world ever fade around him until all there is is the body flush and naked, the high that soars a man up, and the presence of another being like something spiritual?

Doubtful. Until tonight.

Lafayette holds him firm and pushes in. Jefferson flickers between watching his cock and soaking up Hamilton’s expression. The French endearments on Lafayette’s lips are white noise to the hitch in Hamilton’s breath, to the roll of his body that already has lines of frustrations. He wants what he wants so bad and yet he can’t say it. For all his words, for all the noise that is always in his throat, he can’t vocalize the details and Jefferson wonders if he doesn’t know or is simply afraid.

Lafayette begins what Jefferson assumes is his regular rhythm, slow and methodical, careful and near romantic in its fervor. Of course, Jefferson knows that the romance of it is just his way of fucking, that while there might be emotions for Hamilton, they are nothing quite so much as love. He can tell in the tilt of his body as he thrusts, but more telling, he can see it in his eyes that are no longer on Hamilton, but keep darting like little birds to the couch, to Washington’s like there are gravitational forces beyond his control. Jefferson smiles at the knowledge, the pit of possessiveness in his stomach shrinking in light of the information. Because even if these other four men have him, even if they take him every night for the rest of Hamilton’s days, Jefferson is hell bent on making this firecracker of a man his.

“Stop looking at everyone else,” Hamilton whines and Jefferson returns down to see his eyes wide open, smooth and liquid dark like foreign chocolates melted under the heat of a great fire.

“Where do you want me to look?” Jefferson teases even as Lafayette keeps fucking, slow to his own beat.

Hamilton shifts, his back arching off the table, his hips and legs trying to draw Lafayette in faster. But his eyes never leave, they remain wide open as he answers, “ _Me._ ”

Jefferson chuckles to himself and leans down, pulls Hamilton’s neck up to an angle, and kisses him, hot and deep and upside down. There’s nothing elegant in it, nothing refined. It’s all lips and tongue and teeth and something hidden deep down within Jefferson’s blood that is just _filthy_ with want and when Hamilton moans, when his mouth falls open for him, it’s all Jefferson can do not to swell with pride and kick the others out, have him like he wants to at the end of all of this.

Outside of their two-person bubble, Washington stands from the couch and walks to Lafayette, runs his hands over flesh and dives his tongue inside Lafayette’s mouth. Lafayette gives a low, whimpering moan and stutters in his rhythm in Hamilton, which causes _Hamilton_ to gasp into Jefferson’s mouth and the ripple of passion and want is enough for Jefferson to twitch in interest, for Hamilton to arch, and for Lafayette to--with a last few desperate thrusts--come hard inside him.

Hamilton bites Jefferson’s lip when he does and Jefferson’s hand goes to Hamilton’s hair to thread his fingers in and hold on. Jefferson waits until the high has left, until Lafayette has pulled out and Washington has angled him away to the couch to collapse, before he whispers to Hamilton, “Wasn’t that a good start?”

And Hamilton, with twinkling eyes and newfound knowledge, just whispers back, “ _Thomas_.”

Jefferson chuckles. “A+,” he mutters and runs his fingers through Hamilton’s hair, gathers it and then lets it slip through his fingers like water. “My perfect boy...Mulligan’s going to fuck you next. He’s practically got himself there with Laurens, but we can’t have that, can we?” He leans down and bites Hamilton’s earlobe, drinks in the dirty moan that slips through his swollen lips. “They only come when they’re in you, right? It’s the rule.”

He beckons Mulligan forward who slips his hand off of John’s cock and his mouth off of his neck, leaving the poor man gasping. Laurens reaches behind him to brace himself on the wall and watches with rapt eyes as Mulligan walks to Hamilton to replace the previous man who had been between his legs. As Mulligan puts hands on Hamilton’s knees to spread them wider, he reacts on impulse and flicks his eyes downward. Thomas moves to correct him, but before his fingers can tilt his chin, Hamilton has looked back up, has melted in him again like sugar in water and Jefferson wonders if this is the view that will haunt him even on his deathbed.

“Have you been waiting for me?” he asks Hamilton suddenly, even as Mulligan goes on Hamilton, fast and rough and hard like he likes to do.

Hamilton’s eyes fall shut and he can’t help the groan low in his throat. “What?” he asks, gasping, his body a rocking mess as Mulligan fucks him to his heart’s content.

Jefferson puts hands on either side of Hamilton’s neck and stills him from the onslaught, asks again. “This. This orgy. The way you are never satisfied...the way you asked me, invited me...have you been waiting for me?”

For a second, Hamilton frowns, his eyes going from liquid to solid, concrete in the way they block off. But then they soften again and his expression opens back up. He parts his lips to speak, but a particularly virulent thrust stops him in the process. His eyes go closed again and his body reacts, tries to worm its way farther on Mulligan who is going too shallow for his tastes. But he doesn’t forget, after the roll is over, to open his eyes again back to Thomas, to answer in simple, if cryptic words, “I was waiting for someone.”

“Did you think it would be me?” Jefferson asks quietly.

“I...I had wondered,” Hamilton asks him softly and Jefferson watches, intrigued, as his expression goes from open to something far more vulnerable than Jefferson has ever seen, the strong lion finally showing its wounded chest. “Thomas,” he says and this time, it is more of a stutter, the barest release of breath and Jefferson holds him, cradles him and leans down, whispers in the space they have created for themselves.

“I have you,” he says and Hamilton breathes easier.

Jefferson puts his forehead on Hamilton’s, connects them that way, and closes his eyes. From here, he can feel the twitching and rolling of Hamilton’s body as Mulligan has begun to moan and the connection of that energy goes through him like lightning. But more than that, it’s the words on Hamilton’s mouth that are making his cock stand prouder, the flush of his lips, the density of his gaze as they burn behind Jefferson’s eyelids, how they draw and draw and draw Jefferson in like a black hole sucking up every inch of light.

He had thought this night was to make Hamilton his. He has only conceptualized now that the path might be mutual.

It doesn’t take Mulligan long. He has already worked himself up with Hamilton earlier and followed by John and even taking that all into consideration, Jefferson notes that Mulligan appears to be the type of man to ride hard, finish fast. And he does finish, adds to what is already there in Hamilton and isn’t that a pretty picture to think of? All of these men dirtying him up when they all know who it’s going to be at the end of the night.

“Shit,” Mulligan whispers to himself, riding it out for the moment and Jefferson presses his fingers into Hamilton’s skin lightly for attention, feeling somewhat vulnerable at the thought that the small word of exclamation could take Hamilton away from him, if even for the briefest of seconds.

But he doesn’t have much to worry about, given that Hamilton is saying his name again. Jefferson rises, pulling their foreheads apart to look down once more. “Washington,” he says, “to build you up. And Laurens with his passion to finish you.” Hamilton’s eyes flicker across his expression and he opens his mouth, but Jefferson recognizes the mistake and cuts him off. “ _Me_ to finish you.”

Hamilton gives a little puff of a sigh and says “Thomas” again, his legs wide open and vacant for the moment. Jefferson wants to touch him, touch _more_ of him, run his hands down chest and hips, pull his fingers over that glorious cock, full and leaking. He wants to be the one over him or under him, in him. Wants to have his mouth on Hamilton’s proper, wants to make him shake for the thrill and fear of coming completely for once in his life. But not yet. Hamilton will have to wait. And Jefferson will have to wait, too. So with a swallow, he touches his own neck to feel briefly his own fluttering heartbeat and allows Washington forward.

Washington nearly trips on his way there as he tries to leave the circle of Lafayette’s roaming mouth and Lafayette forbids it for the first few seconds. Jefferson notes the angle of his spine as it arches under Lafayette’s touch, the proud upturn of his dick, the way his body is already singing. For sure, Jefferson thinks, this orgy is not the only time they touch one another. But Washington eventually untangles himself from the spider-like Frenchman with too many limbs and walks forward to where Hamilton has begun to whine in emptiness.

“Hush,” Jefferson tells Hamilton, but Hamilton has let his frustration get to him and leans up to say something to Washington before the sharp whistle goes off right into his ear from Jefferson’s lips and he swallows down his words. His head falls back on the table and Jefferson smoothes over his hair again, quiets him into stillness.

Once Hamilton has returned to looking at him, he nods his consent to Washington, who takes his time making sure that Hamilton is at a comfortable angle before beginning his turn. Hamilton moans thick when Washington enters him and his eyes roll back in his head. Jefferson knows without having to ask that Washington is hitting him in just the right way, even if Washington is a bit too thorough about it, a bit too succinct, and not nearly as wild and uncontrolled as Hamilton wants it to be. Jefferson quirks his lip up to himself at the thought of it--of all the little bitty critiques that Hamilton is swallowing down into himself now that Jefferson has control of when and how he speaks.

But Jefferson listens. Listens with rapt attention and when Hamilton says “Thomas” with pleading eyes, he knows what he needs. Knows what he wants. And he leans down to kiss him again, thrusting his tongue inside in the best mockery he can of Washington’s rhythm. And Hamilton touches him now, lifts his hand and puts it into his hair and the touch is so innocent and yet so intimate. More so than any cock that has been in him yet, any hand on his dick. There is something more to this--the press of Hamilton’s fingers to his scalp, to the back of his neck, the small tug and the way Hamilton’s mouth opens for him in desperation and with a fire that burns so pure and so hot, Jefferson feels scalded by it, but also warm for the first time in his life.

“See?” Jefferson hears Lafayette’s voice, even though he is tongue deep within Hamilton’s mouth and with his heart half poured out before him. “Kiss me like they are kissing, mon coeur,” he says to Washington. “Kiss me as you come.”

And Washington must be, if the small noises they are making between each other are anything to go by. Jefferson releases Hamilton’s mouth, but stays with his eyes, unable to look away from the little alcove that is just them even as he hears the rustle of Laurens’ impatience, the satisfied and approving grunts of Mulligan, the gasps and groans that Lafayette and Washington make toward each other.

When Washington finishes, Hamilton arches up, but he doesn’t arch toward Washington. His neck inclines to Jefferson, his lips fall open for him, and his eyes get wider, become pools of dark and ancient things, even as he whispers “Thomas” like a dying, long ago spoken prayer. His body ripples, holds itself back with all the force that Alexander Hamilton has at his disposal--all his willpower, his determination, his undying ability to never stop. And he doesn’t stop. No, he holds all this back, too, away from Washington and away from the others and so when Washington pulls out of him, it is almost a relief when Hamilton falls back onto the table, aching and unfinished.

“I won’t--” he begins, but of course Jefferson knows, so he hushes him just with a small motion of his lips, even as Laurens jumps forward, ready and past waiting.

“Last one,” Jefferson says to Hamilton, even as Laurens doesn’t wait for his cue and pushes inside. Hamilton grunts for it and his body goes rigid again, rising and rising and rising, but so unwilling.

Laurens fucks him good. Jefferson can tell. And even if he doesn’t hit Hamilton’s perfect spot, even if it isn’t exactly what he is begging for and needing, it still gets him there, soars him up like a perfect kite and maybe the difference is the order that Jefferson put them in or maybe Laurens is just on tonight or maybe it’s just the simple fact that someone is looking at him, but Jefferson hopes, hopes with more than his pride, more than his sense of self worth, that it is because Jefferson is here with him. That _Jefferson_ is the difference, _Jefferson_ the reason that his lips spill little whines like fountains overflowing water, _Jefferson_ the reason his body aches like metal put into fire shaping out swords, and _Jefferson_ the reason that, with a godawful gasp, he makes it there, is almost there, is rocking with an orgasm about to hit so hard that Jefferson knows it will wrack his body with everything he is worth for the first time in forever, but…

But this is Hamilton. And even now, at the precipice of orgasm, his sheer will holds him back. And instead of letting go, instead of spilling himself between Laurens and Jefferson, he says in a rush of an avalanche, “Nationalcreditsucks.”

Laurens immediately stops and Jefferson, too, lifts his head, staring at Hamilton in awe. He is panting, his eyes wide and pupils blown out, every inch of him ready, but not ready, there, but not there and he pleads with his gaze in such sincere fashion that it turns for Jefferson--the lock that has been piercing its way into the right code finally snaps into place and Jefferson feels himself stumbling into Hamilton, falling all the way, cemented in the fact that it is his name on Hamilton’s lips once more, one more “ _Thomas_ ,” and he is overcome.

“What do I--” Laurens begins to ask, but Jefferson holds up a finger for him to shut up and then leans down over Hamilton again, puts his mouth next to his ear.

“Say it once more,” Thomas says, “and I will stop everything and everyone will leave.” He takes a big breath and then puts himself out there, goes out on the limb. “But I think I know what you want. Do you...do you want me? Don’t answer. Say ‘national credit sucks’ again and I’ll stop, but otherwise…” Jefferson runs his fingers through Hamilton’s hair again and then gathers it up, tangles of it caught in between his knuckles. He forms a fist around it and pulls with enough force to feel it, enough to hurt and Hamilton groans indignation. “That brings you back, right?” Thomas whispers to him. “You said nothing gets you down faster. And you don’t want to come, do you? Not without--”

“--Thomas--”

“--without me--”

“ _\--Thomas--_ ”

“--and so--”

“ _\--Thomas--_ ”

“--let him finish in you and then--”

“ _\--Thomas!_ \--”

“-I will.”

Alex gasps and Thomas takes the opportunity to kiss his throat, to feel the motion of his breath under his lips, to feel his heartbeat wild and fragile. He holds his hair tight and pulls until Hamilton whines with a little breath of pain and, once sure that Hamilton won’t use his phrase again, lifts his eyes just long enough to beckon Laurens to continue. And Laurens does, slow at first, but gaining in thrust. Jefferson watches carefully and when Hamilton’s body begins to yearn, he pulls, drags Hamilton back into him and they stay like that, Jefferson keeping his body from what it wants to do so that Hamilton’s mind can stay where he wants it to stay and when Laurens finishes, both too soon and too fast, Hamilton all but kicks the man out of him and Jefferson all but snaps at them to leave until there are four men scrambling for clothes and heading for the door with boots in hand, jackets dangling from arms until the sound of the door shutting on the last one rings silence and Hamilton explodes like a furious lion partaking in its prey.

He grabs Jefferson by the collar and swings him around, sitting up at the same time so they are finally facing one another proper and kisses him with such a force of will that Jefferson sways with it and only gathers himself enough to pull back, to drag Hamilton off the table even as Hamilton’s hands find his clothing and shed him of them.

They stumble toward the chair in the corner, the same one that Jefferson sat in the time before and watched with keen, eagle eyes to the scene that played out in front of him and he is lucky Hamilton’s fingers are so nimble, so quick, and so determined. His pants hit the floor long before his ass hits the chair and Hamilton sheds the rest of Thomas’ clothes with vigor until they are naked between each other and Hamilton’s thighs are on either side of his hips, his body arched out before him and sinking down and down on Jefferson’s flesh.

Jefferson’s fingers go to hold him and he stifles his own moan until Hamilton shakes his head and says with a crack in his voice, “Let me hear you.”

Jefferson opens his throat, lets the sound out, the animalistic groan that comes from Hamilton around him, the growl that Hamilton desires and returns with keening, with the roll of his hips upward and then down as they fall into a rhythm that they both already know so well. Jefferson’s arm goes around him, holds there where his back meets his waist and even though Jefferson’s body aches to close his eyes, to revel in the feel of it, he leaves them open--open to meet pupils deeper and older than the fragile nature of Jefferson’s own bones, but that are somehow younger, too, vulnerable and new.

Hamilton gasps for him and Jefferson bites his lip at the sound. He is already slick with lube and the finish of others, but still ideal, still the exact right fit, and his body on Jefferson--the roll of his hips, the arch of his muscles--is aching in its perfection.

Jefferson takes him. He uses his arm as leverage and he thrusts up hard, is overly pleased at the sound of Hamilton’s wracking moan. He knows, now, every inch of his body, having watched the others, having studied and tucked away each little tidbit of information. And he uses it now. Uses it to drag the word from Hamilton’s lips that has come to mean so much in such a small time--” _Thomas_ ”--and this time, it’s not met without answer, but with the bubbling of Jefferson’s own voice, with the own fragility of his vocals as he responds, “ _Alex_.”

Hamilton’s mouth parts, his eyes widen, and his body twitches there in Jefferson’s lap and Jefferson can’t stand even the small bit of air between them, so he kisses him. Kisses him for everything he’s worth and lets down any guards that might be held up between them that this is a man he is supposed to despise, a man he is supposed to argue with, to fight with, to prove _wrong_ and instead, here he is now, proving Hamilton _right and right and right_. Because wasn’t he? Wasn’t he correct in his impatience? Correct in waiting through four men, none of whom could satisfy, to get to Jefferson here now? Jefferson who was built for him, Jefferson who was molded, as they say, from the clay for this one particular purpose: to cause the hitch in Hamilton’s breath, to watch his body as it tenses and soars untouched and stimulated only by the words on Jefferson’s lips, the breathy, “Come for me, Alex.”

And he does. He falls apart in Jefferson’s hands like stormy water that slips between the space of fingers. His body arches, his eyes close, and he rolls onto Jefferson’s body like some kind of long-sought homecoming that stretches the muscles, tenses the skin, and Jefferson leans forward to catch him, to dirty his hands with Hamilton’s come even as the look on Hamilton’s face sends him over farther than the clutching of his body around Jefferson, the heat and the sweat and the exertion and all the other things that are _supposed_ to, but don’t.

Jefferson finishes in him. Hot, yes, and hard and aching. But almost as an afterthought. Almost like the climax of the moment already passed in the meeting of their lips, the hunger of their eyes. Somewhere between four other bodies and a host of voices, they found each other. And maybe this is why Hamilton collapses. Maybe this is why Jefferson, still in him, gathers him up and tucks Hamilton under his chin to feel the vague wetness of tears finally shed from whatever it was that has kept Hamilton’s vulnerability locked up in his chest like his ribcage is steel bars of solitary.

It’s a long time before they move. Or maybe it isn’t and it just feels like it. But Thomas holds him, lets the only sound in the room be a whisper on his lips like a prayer, “Alexander.” And when Alex is strong enough to lift his head, eyes shining and brighter than suns, Thomas murmurs any noise down with a quiet, “ssshh,” and the briefest of touches as he brushes Alex’s hair away. “I’ve got you,” Thomas tells him with a heavy desire to _let him know_. “My beautiful boy.”

Alex’s eyes go crinkled with too many emotions to name and so Thomas pulls out of him slowly, pushes him back until Alex stands up and then Thomas, once on his feet, grabs Alex again where he is threatening to collapse. He tosses him up, holds him, and carries him to the bed, eternally aware of the shaking in Alex’s limbs that is so unlike anything Thomas could ever imagine---desperate, lonely, sadness mixed with a kind of brilliant hopefulness that Thomas feels tugging at his heart like he is only a puppet in Alex’s hands and when did this happen? How did it transpire tonight and how does Thomas feel both like he is swept under the greatest of hurricanes and also lighter than the smallest of breezes?

Thomas lays him down in the bed and quiets Alex’s poor plea to resist. He cleans both of them up and slides into the covers, cool and clean and crisp like they are unaware of what the rest of the room has seen, like they are a thing apart. And Alex, exhausted, doesn’t fight. He just falls, falls into Thomas’ chest and, still without sound, shakes in something that Thomas can only barely touch and could never describe, but also knows with every line of his body, every word on his lips, every shrewd thought that took Alex in and studied him and lead him, but also met him, also fell to him. And, as Thomas’ eyes fall shut, as Alex’s breath goes even, he wonders, here in the quietness of the room they have found themselves in, which of them is the one in need.

***

Thomas wakes to brightness slanted into little pieces of shards--cut from the blinds, he guesses, as the sun is now higher than it has any right to be on a morning after the previous night. That is the first thing he realizes. Sun.

The second is that he is alone in the sheets that are still too white, too cool, and too set apart from the room to be called a form of comfort, a form of home. The bed is empty except for his body and the room beyond it is quiet, six voices pierced into silence by absence or emotional hype. For a moment, he feels desolate. And after that sad, a heavy weight setting on his chest and a realization crystal clear across his mind--he had hoped that Alex would stay. He had _wanted_ to wake up beside him.

So the small little sound of a throat clearing from across the room is louder than the crack of a bell and it flares up a light within Thomas that he didn’t know he had the ability to possess. He leans up on his elbow and looks over to find Alex in the chair from the previous night, a sheet over his skin. His eyes are downcast, his hair an absolute wreck, and the nakedness of one shoulder belies that he has done nothing to make himself presentable except to grab the sheet from the bed as he retreated away. He looks...broken, almost. And Thomas suddenly feels a well of shame that he might have pushed too far.

“I’ll go,” Jefferson whispers to the room and even that, even that puff of breath, causes Hamilton to flinch. Jefferson slides his body forward to sit up and keeps talking, if only to fill the space that Hamilton’s voice would normally occupy. “I’ll tell the others that you threw me out afterwards. I can even sneer and be a bitch about it. You don’t have to worry about explaining anything and I’ll...well, you can send out the invite to the other four again if you like. Go back to how you were. There’s no need for you to...dwell on anything.”

Hamilton doesn’t speak and Jefferson falls into silence, gives him time and when it seems like he won’t even be acknowledged, moves the cover away to stand up and dress.

“I can’t,” Hamilton whispers and Jefferson pauses in his movements.

“Wha--”

“I can’t...pretend it didn’t happen.”

Jefferson’s blood goes cold and his worst case scenario shifts from never being able to touch Hamilton again to being met with fear and ice in his eyes, so unlike everything that Alex is that it would be harder to see that everyday, harder to be faced with it than it would to never see him again. Jefferson swallows and opens his mouth, but Hamilton has continued.

“I can’t pretend you didn’t make me feel that way.”

“Hamilton, I--”

“Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“My last name like you don’t know me.”

Jefferson frowns and meets his eyes, finds them dark and swirling under the blinding light from the window, the white sheet that covers his body and damn near hurts to look at. He opens his mouth, but finds that the words are stolen from him, put into Alex’s lips as pretty as mixed paint.

“Thomas,” he whispers and his throat closes, swallows. “Come over here before I...before I change my mind and fuck us both up forever.”

Jefferson doesn’t move at first, just stares and drinks him in, like to move would be to shatter the vulnerability that has been webbed between the two of them from the spiders of their hearts working and working and building and building all throughout the night and Jefferson is not a fool enough to not realize the force of this metaphor--that the silk of their united web is both so delicate as to be broken with a touch and like steel in its persistence.

So he stands. And he walks over. Slips underneath the sheet with Hamilton and finds his body warm and inviting, shaking and desperate just like Jefferson’s own skin. He wraps his arms around Hamilton’s chest, brings him in and holds him there, in a cocoon of their own making. “You don’t have to have the others,” Jefferson tells him. “Or you can have them all. I don’t care. Just as long as this is--”

“Shut up,” Hamilton tells him quickly and shivers, presses their skin together and watches with a fascination as they breathe in unison. “Just say my name and shut up.”

So Jefferson does. Whispers it to him like the prayer they both know it is. “Alexander.”

And that is that.


End file.
